


Witness

by bluestargirl6 (pressdbtwnpages), pressdbtwnpages



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-20
Updated: 2006-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pressdbtwnpages/pseuds/bluestargirl6, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pressdbtwnpages/pseuds/pressdbtwnpages
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death strikes an unexpected member of the group.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Witness

There had been an order damn it, a plan.

 ~~Angel~~  
 ~~Mimi~~  
Collins  
Roger

Joanne, Maureen, Mark, hell, Benny too, they were going to go on, have good lives, remember their friends over cups of coffee.

This, this was not the plan at all and Roger is mad as hell about it.

Mark was supposed to give his eulogy. About feelings and not being afraid and being a fighter, all euphemisms for “Roger was a stubborn jackass and I loved him like a brother”. Roger doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say about Mark. For Mark.

Roger has too many questions to be able to make people feel better about _Mark_ being _dead_. He’s too fucking angry.

Mark’s family, pale and dumpy and suburban, are sitting in the front row, and what the hell? They don’t deserve that. They haven’t even _seen_ Mark in years. And now they’ll never see him, Roger takes vindictive pleasure in that. Until he remembers that his roommate, his best fucking friend in the world, went out for milk and never came back.

Roger thought losing Mimi would be the hardest thing he would ever have to do, after all, his name’s on the list too. But Mark, _Mark_ had been there. Mark had made tea and piled blankets on Mimi and bargained with Benny for time and heat and the big damn bottle of tequila he’d given Roger once the paramedics cleared out.

Mark’s not going to be picking up the pieces now. This time the pieces lay where they fall.

Collins taps Roger on the shoulder, it’s time to say something, anything, and the words… Roger’s gift with words died a long time ago. Many muses ago.

“I… we…” Roger clears his throat. He used to be a genuine bonafide goddamn rock star, speaking to a crowd, any crowd, should not be this difficult.

“We all said ‘no day but today’ and tried to live by that. No one knows better than me that life is short. But there was a plan, dammit, there was a list and we all knew who’s candle was burning out when. And Mark, he wasn’t on that list. Mark was beautiful and pure and he was supposed to be the witness, recording us all for posterity.”

In the row behind Mark’s family Maureen gasps in anguish at the truth of it, burying her face in Joanne’s shoulder as Joanne nods her approval. It’s easier for them, Roger thinks, they weren’t among the death toll, it’s different watching your best friend slip in through the cracks before you.

“There was a plan,” Roger insists again, banging his fist on the lectern. “I wasn’t supposed to have to bury my best friend. He was… so much stronger,” Roger shudders a little with the pain and his eyes burn, “so much braver, so much better. What kind of fucked up god makes up these rules, you know? The good guys die and the guys who shoot off their mouths and shoot poison into their veins live? How is that fair?”

Behind him, Collins clears his throat softly, a reminder that this is a funeral and that Roger is supposed to be remembering Mark and comforting his family. Fuck that. Maureen, Joanne, Collins, Benny, yes, there’s Benny in the back, clinging to Muffy’s hand, they’re Mark’s family and Roger is Mark’s best friend. Roger’s liking the thought of Mark looking down with Angel and Mimi and just losing his shit, cracking up at Roger’s rendition of a heartfelt eulogy.

“Mark, he liked to see the best in things,” Roger shakes his head at the thought of his friend’s naivety, “was pretty good at it too. And I have to wonder, Mark, where’s the bright side in this?”

Roger surveys the moderately filled church, people from Buzzline are in attendance, people from Scarsdale who remembered Mark at 18, people from the neighborhood, Cat Scratch dancers and Life Café waiters, the guy who feeds pigeons on the corner of 11th and B. Mark was well-known, the kid with the camera, and liked by pretty much everyone who’d ever spoken to the guy. Hell, even Muffy has tears in her eyes and Roger figures it’s not because of his heart-wrenching speech.

“I guess the right answer, what I’m supposed to say, what you all want to hear,” Roger gestures at his audience, “is that we were lucky to know Mark. That we’ll see him on the flip-side. If you believe that shit.”

“Roger!” Collins says softly, in exasperation and frustration. Roger wonders what he’ll finally say that will cause the other man to sweep him aside, lean into the microphone and thank all the guests for coming.

Joanne’s trying not to laugh, and Maureen’s glaring at her but fighting a smile and Roger’s sort of feeling alright about this whole eulogy thing. After all, at Angel’s funeral they all fought, at Mimi’s funeral Benny punched him, it’s only fair Mark’s funeral be a little bumpy too.

“This guy,” Roger gestures at Collins, “he’s the right guy to ask to give Mark’s eulogy. I loved Mark like a brother and I’m mad as hell that he’s dead. It’s not _fair_. So I’m really not up for talking about what a wonderful artist he was, what a nice guy, loyal friend. I want to know why this happened. To him of all people. Mark… he‘d let me rant and rave and we‘d go outside and just, howl at the moon, or something and it would be okay again. Or, better. There‘d be a sliver of light at the end of the tunnel. But Mark is gone and I have to wonder if anything is going to be okay ever again.”

Roger takes a deep breath and feels Collins reassuring hand on his shoulder. God he misses Mark.

“You know,” Roger says leaning in close to the microphone, as if what he is about to say should be held in confidence, “he, Mark, would have hated all this. He wasn’t a fan of being the center of attention, being on the wrong end of a camera. Makes sense he’d hang out with a bunch of drama queens.”

Collins’ soft laugh at his back tells Roger he’s forgiven, that he’s finally getting this eulogy thing right.

“Mark would probably be hiding in the back, no so subtly filming the whole thing, for posterity. And after we were all done talking on and on about, really, fucking _nothing_ , he’d suggest we all go to the Life Café for food we can’t afford.” Roger pauses. “So, meet you all at the Life Café?”

There is faint laughter throughout the church and Mrs. Cohen looks scandalized. Roger’s okay with that. Actually, he’s pretty happy about it.

He and Collins tromp down the steps, heading out of the church. They’re joined in the second row by Joanne and Maureen who, to Roger’s utter surprise and bewilderment, slips her hand into his. When the foursome reaches the back of the church Benny drags Muffy out of the pew to join them. They leave to the sounds of Mrs. Cohen tearfully making plans for alternate pallbearers.

In the churchyard Benny grabs Roger by the shoulder and gets in his face. “Are you drunk?” he demands.

Roger almost laughs in the split-second he‘s not remembering that his best friend is dead. “No! It’s Mark’s funeral.”

“Seems like the best reason in the world to drink,” Maureen says quietly next to him, hand still tightly clenched around his. Roger’s starting to worry about her, all docile and dependant.  
“I’m not drunk.” Roger insists. “I’m totally sober. Why?”

“Did you miss what you said in there?” Benny demands. “His _mother_ was in there, man! You can’t just say things like that, at Mark’s funeral! Think about Mark for god‘s sake, what he would want!”

“The last time that woman saw Mark was four years ago,” Roger points out calmly. “We loved him more. We loved him best. _We_ are his family. That’s who funerals are for. Mark’s dead, he’s not going to care.”

A small hiccup from Maureen attracts Roger’s attention, and he looks over at Joanne for guidance. She shrugs, completely useless.

“Maureen?”

“Roger,” she sniffles, watching him steadily through mascara smeared lashes. She’s in more disarray than he’s ever seen her.

It’s instinct that pulls her into his arms. “Give us a minute?” he requests more calmly than anyone expects.

“What’s up, Maureen?” He asks once the others are out of earshot.

“I, I loved him,” Maureen whispers, looking up at him with liner-streaked eyes. “As much as you did. “

“I know,” Roger says soothingly.

“Really. I… we could have…”

“But you wouldn’t,” Roger reminds her, “you didn’t. You and Mark were friends. You love Joanne like I loved Mimi. Mark was a friend, a brother.”

“A brother,” Maureen sniffles, and then with more determination. “A brother. I lost my heart’s brother.”

Roger nods. “Me too.”

After a long pause he asks, “you okay?”

“Yeah.”

Roger nods in Collins’ direction and the group returns, enveloping them.

“I miss him,” Maureen states, challenge in her tone, and no one calls her on it.

“So. Are we going to the cafe?” Muffy, Alison, asks, and no one has a better idea.

******

The Life Café is surprisingly full considering that today’s Mark’s funeral. The world should have _stopped_ today. The world should be still, frozen. But no, the host seats them, warily, after glancing at Benny, and their waiter brings them a pot of tea without asking for their orders.

No one but Mark was all that fond of tea. The five of them stare aghast at the pot while Alison pours herself a cup.

“I don’t have a best friend anymore,” Roger states matter-of-factly, glancing over the familiar menu.

“Of course you do,” Benny rolls his eyes and everyone looks a little shocked and horrified. “It’s not like Mark never existed.”

“He doesn’t exist _now_.” Roger means it to sound scathing, but ends up sounding like a petulant child.

“And the thing in the big box up at the front of the church was… what, exactly?” Benny queries.

“Benny!” His wife chides. “Be kind, he just lost his best friend.”

“I lost a friend too,” Benny notes calmly, “but _I’m_ not being a monumental jackass about it.”

“You kind of are,” Maureen speaks up for the first time since the churchyard.

“Really,” Roger confirms angrily.

“Enough,” Collins cuts off his former roommates before an epic battle can errupt. “Mark wouldn’t-”

“ _Don’t_ , Collins. Just _don’t_ ,” Maureen demands, passion returning to her demeanor. “No one knows what he would have wanted.”

“I do,” Roger insists stubbornly, half-assedly looking for a fight.

“Guys,” Joanne says firmly. “We all cared about Mark. We all miss him. Fighting is not doing anyone any good.”

“I’m not entirely sure about that,” Collins murmured quietly. “Better to be fighting among friends than… something destructive.”

Roger sighs heavily, “I’m not going to shoot up.”

No one looks convinced.

“I’m not!“ He insists and then sighs, “Look, Mark and I worked a long time for me to get clean. I _know_ the high isn’t worth it. The low certainly isn’t. I’m not going to throw away all of our work because I’m a little sad.”

“A little sad?” Maureen repeats dubiously. “Mark is _dead_.”

“Thanks, Maureen, for pointing that out. Really, I’d almost forgotten.”

“I’m just saying, when Mimi died, you mainlined tequila for like, a week. Mark dies and you’re just fine?”

“He’s not fine, Maureen.” Collins speaks for Roger. “He’s dealing differently.”

Roger leaned on one arm and turned to face Maureen. “Mark gave me that tequila, did you know? He handed me the bottle, patted me on the shoulder and said ‘You’ll be okay buddy. I’m in my room if you need me’. I… miss him.”

He misses him and is more than a little pissed off at Mark. For needing milk that night. For doing him the discourtesy of dying without warning, without giving Roger a chance to say goodbye. For leaving. For leaving him behind like an empty film canister. Fucker.

Mark’s dead and Roger doesn’t want to go home. It isn’t home without Mark there. Couch, woodstove, Mark, the contents and occupants of the loft change, but not that. Never that.

So Roger eats slowly, picking at rapidly cooling fries. His companions are antsy and he snaps out, “do you all have somewhere better to be? Because you don’t have to be here.”

Without Mark, Roger is deeply, darkly _alone_ and he needs to be distracted from that. And if his friends can’t do that, he needs to find someone who can.

“Nah, man. I’m cool here,” Collins says casually, but his eyes on Roger indicate that he’s well aware he’s throwing a drowning man a rope.

“Me too.” Maureen nudges Roger’s shoulder with her own, in sympathy, in solidarity.

It’s not the same though. They aren’t even. Joanne’s lost friends. Maureen, friends and an ex. Benny, a friend, an ex, an aquaintance. Collins, he’s lost a lover, a couple of friends. That sucks, it really does, and Roger would sympathize if he hadn’t buried his friend, his girlfriend, and his _best friend_ this year.

It’s too much. And Roger doesn’t want to be near-crying into a plate of French fries.

It’s awkward. No one knows what to do. Mark would, they all think, and Roger knows. Mark would thump Roger’s back until he laughed or got pissed off and it would be over. It won’t ever be over now.

He’s hated the loft plenty of times before, avoided going home for one reason or another. But it’s not even home anymore. It’s too big, too cold, too empty. There’s nothing left compelling him to return. It doesn’t feel like home without Mark there.

Eventually though, Roger doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Sitting in awkward silence at the Life Café with his friends isn’t making him feel any better. He could go to a bar or something, but bars only get Roger into trouble. That’s not what he’s looking for tonight. He couldn’t handle trouble if it found him. Not without Mark to run back to.

“I think,” Roger sighs heavily and stands, “I’m going to go home.”

“You want company?” Collins offers in an instant, as if he’s been waiting all day to make the offer.

“No thanks, I think I’ll be okay.”

“You sure?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Call if you need anything,” Maureen instructs, standing and patting his cheek.

“Okay.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Joanne informs him.

Roger shrugs, “If you want.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Allison says politely, stepping past Roger to the aisle.

“Thanks.”

“Roger…” Benny hesitates, looking into his old friend’s eyes.

“Yeah, Benny.” Years worth of unspoken apologies pass between the two. “I know. It’s cool.”  
Roger shivers as he exits the Life Café. It’s the end of a sweltering summer and he’s been cold all day, wearing his jacket for more than vanity and comfort.

Now, walking back to the loft, he’s suffocating, warm air congealing about his nose and mouth. Still, he’s freezing.

A pit of dread mounts in Roger’s stomach the closer he gets to the apartment. It doesn’t quite connect, despite all of his talk all day, that Mark’s really gone. Mark is _always_ there. Mark is Roger’s constant. It’s hard to even fathom the loft without Mark in it. Mark isn’t with Roger, therefore Mark is in the apartment. That’s just how it is. And now it isn’t. Because Mark is dead. Roger has to keep reminding himself, so the knowledge doesn’t sneak up and blindside him. He can’t handle being blindsided by any more.

The very thought of going up into the empty loft _scares_ him and he tries to rationalize the fear away. It’s been a long day. He’s slept alone in the loft before, last night even, but that was before Mark was buried. Roger’s doing his best to just to keep walking forward and not bolt back down the street.

Once he focuses on his feet, and just, one step, two steps, one step, two steps, he makes it up the stairs to his front door without incident.

A note has been stuck in the door, in the crack where wall meets door, and Roger’s too hurt and numb to do anything but take it and open it.

The writing is feminine and stilted, Mrs. Cohen requesting Mark’s belongings be boxed up and ready to be picked up in the morning.

Roger wants to cry or hit someone. Hit _her_. Who is she to demand Mark’s things? Someone who lived with him day in and day out for years? Someone who’d helped Mark pick out half of his things? _No_.

She can have the hot-plate, Roger rips it’s cord out of the socket and tosses it into a trash bag he’s found under the sink. Mark’s favorite mug stays. Roger stalks through the apartment common areas, sweeping random things, film-making magazines, half a deck of playing cards, abandoned socks, a broken umbrella into the bag.

Once it’s clean, Roger sighs. He feels better. It helps that he can blame Mark’s mom for the fact that he has to throw Mark away. He hates her for making him do this. Hates this job. Hates Mark for dying in the first place.

He hesitates at Mark’s bedroom door, feeling like he’s violating something sacred. Everything gets violated eventually, he thinks, throwing the door open.

The room still smells like Mark, like soap and sweat and film and cheap cologne. Mark’s reels and reels of film, Roger decides, aren’t going anywhere. The Cohen’s wouldn’t know what to do with them anyway, Roger doesn’t have any definite ideas himself.

Tossing sweaters, linens, books into the garbage bag, Roger is privately grateful that Mark had his camera with him that night. It was spared from becoming a morbid trophy by the same accident that took Mark’s life. Now no one can fight over it, or Mark’s scarf either, buried with him at Maureen’s suggestion.

Roger holds up Mark’s blue and red sweater considering, briefly tempted to keep it before deciding he didn’t need macabre souvenirs of Mark, he had years of friendship to keep him company. The Cohen’s don’t have that, Roger satisfies himself maliciously.

Once the garbage bags are standing ready by the front door and Roger has stashed Mark’s movies, projector and photos at the back of his closet, Mark’s bedroom stands empty of anything but the cheap furniture that had come with the place. The sterility is satisfying and sad.

There’s only one place left to clean and Roger has developed a bathroom-phobia over the last few days. Every time he flips on the light he half expects to see the white tile floor covered in blood. It’s been years. His wounds have healed. He really really hates this bathroom. Hates that for all of Mark’s scrubbing , the grout is still stained. Hates that Mark ever had to scrub blood off of a floor.

The Cohen’s probably wouldn’t even notice not getting Marks toiletries, or consider it an understandable oversight if they did. Still, it needs to be done.

Roger cleans as he rages, again. Angry at April, there goes Mark’s toothbrush, alone without Angel, Mark’s shampoo is tossed, mad at Mimi, Mark’s soap gets tossed into a bag, missing Mark, his razor lands on top as Roger sinks to the floor in exhaustion and emotion.

He hates that he’s getting a bathroom-complex, sitting on the floor crying for people he’s lost, the man who saved him.

Roger will see Mark again, soon. He’s on a limited schedule, one he can easily expedite, Roger realizes, toying with Mark’s razor. That would be nice revenge on Mrs. Cohen, an open door and a corpse in the bathroom. A nice little tribute to his dear departed April.

Mark would never ever forgive him.

Roger doesn’t even know if he believes in the afterlife, but if it’s out there, and Roger kind of needs to believe he’ll see his friends again, he’d really like for Mark to not hate him for eternity.

******

Roger isn’t really sure how he managed to not only fall asleep, but sleep through the entire night in the bathroom. He wakes on the cold tile to the sound of pounding on the loft door.

Mr. and Mrs. Cohen are on his doorstep. And Cindy. That’s… nice, sort of. In a creepy, flawed, too little too late sort of way.

“You got my note?” Mrs. Cohen asks in a voice that is trying to be kindly but suggests she isn’t nearly ready to forget Mark’s eulogy.

Fine with Roger. He rubs his eyes and stifles a yawn. “How do you keep getting into the building?”

“That tall,” Cindy gestures, “black guy. He gave us a key.”

His brain isn’t quite awake yet so it takes Roger a minute to figure out that, no Collins doesn’t have a key, and even if he did he wouldn’t give it to the Cohen’s. Benny, however, owns the building and giving the Cohen’s a key seems like _exactly_ the kind of misguided benevolence Benny would engage in.

“Fucking Benny.”

“Watch your mouth, son.” Mark’s father instructs, “There’s ladies present.”

Roger’s sleepy brain fumbles for a comeback but fails, so he shrugs as the Cohen’s step around him into the apartment. They look around the room, eyes peeled for traces of Mark like buzzards questing for corpses.

Deep down, past the pain and anger and betrayal, Roger knows that Mark’s family are not the enemy. That they loved him in their way. These doughy suburbanites are no more threat to his memory than Roger himself is. Still Roger needs a target, an outlet for his grief and they’re _there_. When they haven’t been for years. Storming in, invading the loft and his life, looking for salvage of their son. It’s too late.

“I’ve already gotten Mark’s things together,” Roger says, getting vindictive pleasure from the fact. The catharsis of cleaning was his. He gestures to the bags by the door. “Here.”

Mr. Cohen glares. “Ruining Mark’s funeral wasn’t enough for you, you arrogant little punk? You can’t even treat his own things with respect?”

“Because you had so much respect for him?” Roger asks without thinking.

“I loved my son.”

“I’m sure he would have really appreciated hearing that.”

Mrs. Cohen has started crying, Mark’s dad attempts to comfort her and Roger vaguely wishes he cared at all.

“Where are the rest of Mark’s things?” Cindy asks, eyes on the two full garbage bags.

“Those are them.”

“That’s impossible. He had to have more…” Cindy trails off, as if shocked that a person could have so few belongings.

Roger shrugs, feeling unexpected sympathy for Mark’s sister. “We got the place furnished. Mostly Mark just had clothes and books and stuff.”

“Oh. And this is… it?”

Roger feels vaguely guilty about the things stowed in his closet, but then thinks about _Proof Positive: Today 4 U_ and how the Cohen’s would want it because it’s Mark’s but would never ever understand it and knows he’s doing the right thing.

“Yeah. I’m sorry.” To Roger’s surprise, he really is. Mark’s family wasted so much time removed from his life, such amazing, painful, beautiful time. All they’re left with of Mark is two trash bags full of near-meaningless objects.

Mark and Roger, they went through the highest highs together, falling in love, being enveloped in the creative spirit, success. They went through the lowest lows too, dying friends and lovers, withdrawal, abandonment, writer’s block. And everything’s changed and ending, only it’s not going to end because Roger’s got the movies and the memories and the people who loved Mark best only a phone call away.

It’s going to be okay, Roger realizes. He doesn’t know how, or when, or if the raw ache in his chest will ever heal, but it’s gonna be okay.


End file.
